Chapter 70

070. Brinner (5)

"Really nervous... as much as during the final of the competition. No, maybe even more. Today is solely Seoho's stage, after all."

"Relax. Didn't we say we'd calmly watch our son grow?"

"Y-Yeah. But, dear. Why are my hands sweating...?"

"Hmm."

Among the many audience members were Han Jikjun and his wife.

They had received an invitation to a slightly lower tier than the best seats, so they were seated among the audience.

Their intention to feel the audience's reactions up close was well met, as the people's reactions were quite raw.

Despite the etiquette of classical performances being as strict as dining manners, everyone's reactions were vivid and palpable.

Their postures were proper, but their eyes were as if they were on the stove.

The whispers sounded like fans waiting for an idol, and the impatience of waiting was childlike.

Regardless of age and gender, everyone was waiting for Han Seoho.

Finally, when Han Seoho stepped onto the stage, the audience applauded.

It seemed as if they were clapping to express all the excitement they couldn't voice.

The thunderous applause poured onto the stage.

───!

Han Jikjun and his wife squeezed their hands a little tighter.

#

...The applause deafens my ears.

2,500 seats are filled.

The feeling of all these people looking only at me is not just a flutter in my heart but an excitement that squeezes it.

It's similar to the first time I stepped on stage.

Well, this can also be considered the first time.

All the pieces I chose and arranged, a story I created entirely.

‘It’s a solo recital, after all.’

My lips curved up slightly. I've always felt this way, but sometimes it's beyond surprising, even strange.

That I can laugh at such moments.

Especially a laugh of pure excitement, without a single drop of confusion or anxiety.

In the meantime...

Thud—.

Thud—.

Classical shoes, unsuitable for his age, tapped on the stage.

Swoosh—.

The suit is uncomfortable, but he straightens his back. The slightly large bow tie fits snugly around his neck.

Rattle—.

He gently places the violin on the stand next to him and puts his right foot on the pedal.

"..."

The applause that shook the concert hall stopped.

Silence settled, and it was finally my turn.

And I...

──!

I start my story with a tune that begins without warning.

...The left hand rings out rhythmically like a metronome, and the right hand carries a melody rich with Slavic charm.

I sit in a small studio, and it instantly turns into Russia.

Journalist Choi Sung-ryeong was there, watching and taking notes as if a painter was sketching inspiration from the street.

The Four Seasons, March.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

──!

...The following performance is notoriously difficult.

Though the instrument is different, it's like the devilish violinist the composer admired.

I smile, thinking of the confident, more mischievous than devilish, violinist.

That a performer like you finally appeared.

Paganini's Caprice No. 24.

Franz Liszt.

...This time it was a violin, and the piece was by the mischievous violinist the composer admired.

My fingertips run along the strings, and the bow moves passionately. The performance, meeting a similar violin, gradually takes on his character, finally scattering a cold tone and sounding a warning.

La Campanella.

Niccolò Paganini.

...And again.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky... Sergei Rachmaninoff... Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

...

The pieces I played for the Tchaikovsky Competition and the ones I have heard were all being performed.

Each one was a source of inspiration for me, and the inspiration I refined through practice is finally being applied in today's performance.

The cold air from the air conditioner no longer touches me. Sweat drips and flies.

I sit and stand repeatedly, continuing the performance.

Finally, the encore piece, Mozartiana.

After finishing the piece that is the embodiment of Wolfgang's inspiration...

Zzzzz—!

I put down the violin.

I step forward to the front of the stage and bow.

The cheers that shake the entire concert hall can be heard.

Bravo (Bravo)——!

As I bow, the audience in front of me disappears.

And when I lift my head after the bow...

"..."

Everyone in my field of vision was standing.

#

"I want to stand and clap too."

At President Baek Hangeul's complaint, Vice President Baek Sun-hwa paused her hands. President Baek Gi-woo, who had been stomping his feet as well as standing, awkwardly laughed, "Ahaha," and quietly sat down.

President Baek Hangeul burst into laughter.

"I can't even pout, worried about giving hints. Are you going to make me a stuffy old man who can't even respond to such a good performance?"

"No, Father. It's because my legs hurt. My legs. Haha."

President Baek Gi-woo joked and clapped his hands. Vice President Baek Sun-hwa softly said to President Baek Hangeul.

"It sounds better than last time."

Most of the pieces Han Seoho played were ones that Baek Sun-hwa, Baek Gi-woo, and Park Director, and everyone here, had heard together. But to her, today's performance made her think more.

"Great works, whether music or art, become more profound the more you listen or see. That's the feeling I get."

"The pieces he played are all masterpieces. But the power of a piece can be fully displayed or barely brought out, depending on who performs it."

"The admiration means Seoho played better this time. Better than before?"

President Baek Hangeul laughed, "Isn't that obvious?"

"Perhaps the composers are grateful to Seoho somewhere."

A performance that brings out all the power of a piece.

That's what composers most want to hear.

Then President Baek Gi-woo tilted his head.

"Huh? He's sitting back at the piano?"

President Baek Hangeul also looked back at the stage.

And he said matter-of-factly,

"We called for an encore (Encore)."

To show respect to the performer who gave us a wonderful performance,

with standing and applause.

#

As I sat back at the piano, the audience also sat down.

Silence once again.

I immediately added the first encore.

The piece starts with arpeggios repeating in a high range.

Music fills every corner, and an old man dreams of street performances in the square.

The 'Streets of Moscow' where classical music flows.

The streets have meaning for everyone, and thus are filled with inspiration.

But for some, the world outside the door is a huge barrier.

I recalled the moment I opened the old door and stepped into that world.

To prove that it wasn't a big deal, a small dissonant note was all it took. Then, appropriate notes resolve the tension.

Thus, once again...

The Streets of Moscow.

Han Seoho.

Another piece ended.

"Phew..."

A small sigh.

Now, only one piece remains.

As I break my concentration, the applause and cheers inevitably return.

I slowly stand up and pick up the violin. At the same time, my mood sinks.

It's not a piece I can play with a light heart.

Soon, I feel many eyes on me. Different from before.

'Everyone is curious, they said.'

The staff hinted earlier.

People are very curious about the piece 'Familie.'

Indeed, what will people think after this piece ends?

In this uncertainty...

The final encore began.

I slowly draw the bow.

The sorrowful tone was not Paganini's. Nor was it Han Seoho's.

It belonged to someone who had never held a bow in their own flesh, someone who returned home after months of war swept through the land.

...He, that day.

Saw his mother.

His mother, crying out loud.

And he read the letter left behind.

[I hope you only showed the first part of this letter to your wife. That means I am returning to Baden-Baden. But life is unpredictable, especially war. So I write a few words considering all possibilities.]

It was the first letter he ever received from his father, Karl Friedrich.

[...This is something I should have done but couldn't.]

[If I return, I will try to love music.]

[I will try to understand you and enjoy it with you.]

Pain surges. My chest feels like it's being cut open, but the performance continues.

[We will go to the city of music, Mannheim, as a family and listen to the performances you love. And we will talk about them.]

The melody changes. A sorrowful hope plummets.

[But if I cannot return...]

The dream becomes reality.

Reality becomes a distant past.

[I will look forward to the next life.]

His wish was against the doctrine and absurd.

[I will be born as a musician. I want to teach you the first steps.]

[Then I will watch you grow, playing the music you love. It would be nice to spend nights talking about music.]

The happiness felt by imagination was so intense.

But.

Who caused the child's pain?

Who is to blame for not being able to give birth properly?

[But if, by the mistake of making you suffer so much in this life, I am stripped of my right to be a father.]

[It's okay, please...]

My fingertips tremble.

The pitch naturally wavers.

It becomes like a sob.

[I hope God's cruelty does not visit you again.]

─────!

A long, drawn-out bow.

No tears burst forth.

But it feels like my heart is breaking. All the emotions inside pour out.

Covering the stage and flowing into the audience.

'...I failed.'

No performance today could be this messy. No, it was the only performance that failed.

But perhaps some performances should be like this. The owner of the tone might have intended it to be played this way.

More than a performance...

It was a longing heart, a desperate cry.

And a belated reply.

Familie

Family

Brinner Friedrich.

#

The audience was silent.

Everyone was savoring the aftertaste, unable to part their lips.

Thus, even though the encore ended, there were no cheers, no applause, no standing.

Tears flowed quietly, without accompanying those things.

This time, the audience's emotions rose to the stage.

...and wet Brinner's feet, which were silently crying.